Page 5 of Capturing Perfection

Using the nightstand as a focal point, he fixated on the lamp, and eventually, the vertigo ceased. When the room stopped its circus act, he looked up at Clay and saw the shock and concern on his face. He patted Clay’s cheek, then scooted up, so he was sitting on the floor but leaning against the bed frame and mattress. He realized he was only wearing a pair of briefs and balled the shorts, which he’d somehow held onto in his lap.

“I’m okay,” he said, slowly. At least this time, he wasn't heaving his guts all over the floor.

Logan watched Clay’s lips and translated their movements.

“What happened?”

“Vertigo. Left over from the head injury. Only happens sometimes.”

Clay took Logan’s face between his hands. “You scared the living crap out of me. Don’t do that again.”

Logan smiled. “Sure.”

They got themselves up off the floor, and Logan pulled on his shorts. He walked into the kitchen and got a glass of water. He drank, relishing the feel of a cool drip as it splashed on his bare chest.

When he opened his eyes, Clay fixed his gaze as sharply as any sniper on the bead as it slid down his chest; Logan hissed as the bead crossed his nipple, causing it to harden. He watched Clay swallow convulsively, then turn his back and head for the sofa in the living area.

Logan set his glass back in the sink and, with a resigned sigh, walked into the living room. Clay sat on the sofa with a basket of partially folded laundry. The T-shirt in his hands, one of Logan’s, was being twisted into a tightly coiled rope. He sank into the deep sofa. The leather cool on his back.

Clay tossed the shirt at him, and he put it on, stretching his torso and sliding the fabric down his stomach with far more languidness than necessary. He tightened his stomach and saw Clay’s fingers turn white with tension out of the corner of his eye.

Interesting.

It appeared Clay wanted to either fuck him or kill him. Logan was voting for the first option. However, Clay’s apparent attraction was confusing. What had happened to ‘that which they could never have’?

Logan looked over at Clay, whose expression was now a mask of casualness, then picked up the notepad they used for complicated conversations. He turned sideways on the sofa so he could watch Clayton, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Do you need to see your doctor?” Clay asked.

Logan shook his head. Clay raised an eyebrow, signaling to Logan that he needed more information. His head dropped, and he let out a deep breath. A warm hand landed on his knee, and he looked up to see Clay’s gray eyes filled with compassion.

“It’s okay Logan. Take your time.”

He squared his shoulders and looked Clay dead in the eyes, then scribbled on the notepad.Damage to my inner ear, the part that controls yourbalance,causes the vertigo. My doctor said this would happen for a while. Only time and therapy will help. I’ve had the therapy.

Clay read Logan’s note and nodded. He picked up his own pad and wrote.Is that what caused your hearing loss, too?

Logan shook his head.The fractures of my cochlea did that. Same area different structure.

Clay made sure he had Logan’s attention before speaking, “Have you heard from the VA about those implant things? Didn't the hearing doctor say, you'd be a good candidate?”

Once again, Logan shook his head. “All they saying is ‘case pending’.”

“It’s been three months!” Clay stood and paced back and forth along the couch. He stormed around the room, ranting and waving his arms around. Logan stared at Clay, not comprehending, but he thought there might have been something about three months in the beginning. Did he really think Logan didn't know how long it had been since his life was turned inside out?

Clay held up a hand. He picked up his notepad once again.I’m sorry. I know you didn’t catch any of that. That was stupid of me. So what happened this morning? I mean, obviously, you had a flashback, but do you know what triggered it?

Logan once again shook his head.

“Have you had flashbacks before?”

He couldn’t maintain eye contact as shame coursed through his body. He was a thirty-six-year-old man. An Army Ranger. One of the baddest of the bad. Trained to chew nails and kill with a single glance. How could he possibly confess to an untold amount of lost time or instances when he traveled back to relive moments spent with his platoon—the grueling days in Ranger school, the nights drinking beer and playing cards, the first time he’d known he was directly responsible for another man’s death, or most often, that afternoon when the demons of hell unleashed themselves upon his unit. How could he possibly confess to being so weak, he frequently woke with tears tracking down his face?

Clay’s fingers locked with his, and Logan closed his eyes, letting the simple touch ground him in the present. The fingers squeezed, and Logan once again met Clay’s gaze.

“I know about the nightmares. I hear you at night. Sometimes, you scream just before you wake up.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

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